Scars
by Ameraka
Summary: Jason has to deal with constant reminders of being interrogated by Gray. He'd rather not remember, but he can't help it, every time he sees the scars. A sort of epilogue of "Fallout", but from Jason's POV.


I catch my image in my bed room mirror after showering and shaving. It's been an ordeal just getting my jeans on, and I'm taking a break before tackling my shirt. Yesterday I moved back into my apartment, after insisting I was (finally) able to take care of myself. My dad needs to get back to normal life. It's not like I can't take care of myself, either. It's just…not easy. Even getting up and getting dressed is something I dread…

They say I will always bear the scars.

That shouldn't bother me; after all, the one slashed across my cheek gives me a roguish look. And life as a spy has given me several badges of honor—bullet wounds on my shoulder and side, a long cut tracing my arm. But the most recent scars, barely healed, override the old ones, crisscrossing my chest and back. And of course there is the bullet wound, the bruising and discoloration still spreading out from its matrix like cancer.

In all my years as an agent, I'd never been tortured to the point of breaking before. And I'd never been so critically wounded, so close to death. It's not something you get over overnight, I have to keep telling myself. Better men than I have been nearly vanquished by traumatic experiences. It just takes time.

But the scars are staring me in the face, mesmerizing me, pulling me toward them despite the fact I'd rather not see them at all. Is this really me, looking back from the mirror? My eyes are ringed with shadows, my cheeks gaunt, and I am so much thinner, even after my father's good food. I need to start working out again, or I'll get out of shape, more than I already am.

I pick up my red shirt from on top of the dresser and tug it, carefully, over my left arm. My shoulder stabs me with pain, and I have to stop for a moment before pulling the shirt the rest of the way. One arm down.

I lean sideways, trying to get my right arm through the other sleeve-without having to use my left arm-as the sleeve dangles behind me. Finally I catch the sleeve, pull it over my shoulder, shove my hand into it.

There. Not so bad.

But even that little bit of exertion has made me breathless. I sit down on the bed to button the shirt with my right hand, my left hand lying listlessly on the blue bedspread. That hand will never be the same again, they tell me. I resent that fact. Every time I see it, it reminds me of what happened, and so I've taken to ignoring it, turning slightly to the right, so much that it's becoming second nature.

Every time I see that hand, I hear Gray's chill voice as he pounds the nails into it, sending bright blossoms of pain across my mind. As if I'm just a trophy to be pierced to the wall, mutilated for mere sport.

I can't stand the fact that someone so twisted owns a part of me. Why can't I tear these scars from me, start with a clean slate, none of this to remind me of what happened? I would burn them away somehow, though that would only create new scars.

I flex my left hand. Soreness bites back at me. I can't come close to making a fist with it yet, no matter how hard I push it. My physical therapist says not to push it; change comes gradually, and even then: "Don't expect it to be like it used to". I will never be like I used to. I feel weighed down; the pain has worn me out. In the old days, it probably wouldn't have, but I am getting older, and now I feel like a man twice my age, who can't even put on his own clothes without hurting.

I lean my head into my right hand. Dear God, when will this be over? Why can't you just….wipe away my memory of what happened, burn it from me, so I can start over, without those memories assaulting me at every turn? What good has come out of any of it?

Your sacrifice gave Nadira her life, said His voice.

I know. I have to keep telling myself that.

And My sacrifice gave you yours.

I look at my hand. The ragged scars, one beside the other, where the nails had chopped through skin and tissue. The ring of a hammer on nail would always remind me of the slash of searing pain, and a man who cared nothing of human dignity.

But that is what happened to Him, isn't it? There was nothing beautiful about that day. The men that nailed Him there were callous soldiers, used to dealing in death. But out of what He did came glory beyond imagining…

These scars don't have to just remind me of Gray, I realize. They can remind me of the burden my God carried for me. Both on the day He died, and on the day I almost died—when He helped me resist Gray's questioning, and helped me be willing to give my life for another.

Just as I could never have died for my own sins, I could never have done what I did that day without Him. I would have faltered and failed, just as I did in Egypt, Singapore, London. I need to be reminded of that—and this, Lord—I gently press my left hand to my heart—can help remind me of that. As the scars fade, help me not to forget.

I struggle to my feet, pain lancing through my chest. But I push through it, and step out the door to greet the morning.


End file.
